


Vices and Their Cures

by Overandout



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Dirk Strider, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overandout/pseuds/Overandout
Summary: You are Dirk Strider and you're so tired of being you. You pick up a bad habit to get your mind off of it, and it leads to unexpected results.
Relationships: Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider/Dirk Strider
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have another chapter or two of this planned, but this first chapter can also be taken as just a one-shot

You knew from experience that drinking was a bad habit to get into. You also knew from experience that there were worse. It seemed like a good, entry level vice. Go to a bar, drink until you were numb, stumble home and sleep like you’re dead to the world. You had avoided it up until this point, it and other substances, in your desperate need to be in control of yourself. But you’re tired. You’re tired of being you, of being in your head, of being in control. So what’s a night of drinking?

There was a bar near the apartment you shared with your older brother, who was out more often than he was in. He was in the indie movie business, slowly moving his way up, always socializing and networking when he wasn’t working. He wouldn’t notice you were gone. He wouldn’t notice when you came home drunk. That suited you just fine.

You go to the bar. You sit on a stool and order a drink. Straight vodka. It burns as it goes down, and you quickly feel tipsy. Scared and satisfied, you knock another back.

A man sits next to you and orders two vodkas. He passes one to you. You know it’s suspicious, but you don’t care. You knock that back as well. You hadn’t eaten yet tonight and the three shots quickly pass through your belly and course through your veins.

The man who sat next to you who you can not get a clear focus on laughs lightly and slides his glass to you as well. You lift it in a sloppy cheers and down it.

There is an arm around your shoulder.

You don’t remember standing up, but you’re being led somewhere. It’s hard to think, so you just follow the press of the arm, leaning into the side of whoever has you. The man, probably.

You’re outside. The air is cool, but not biting, the night a pleasant buzz of cars and dim streetlights and you are pressed against a rough wall. There is the stink of garbage and puke on the air, but your nose can barely detect it, barely process it, all of your senses dulled. Distantly you think you will be bruised from the way the brick is digging into your back, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Your shirt is being lifted and you shiver involuntarily before warm hands are roaming your stomach and chest.

You struggle to lift an arm up to try to knock away the hands, pull your shirt back down, and a smack on your face shocks you back to some level of awareness.

You start to struggle more as you feel your pants be unbuttoned and shoved down, but the man leans you forward then slams you back into the wall, your head bouncing off of it painfully.

“Stop struggling,” the deep voice warns.

You stop.

You go limp, barely keeping yourself standing upright.

This seems to satisfy him as he trails his hand back down to your now exposed cunt.

“Wasn’t expecting this,” he mutters. “Not that I’m complaining.” 

He shoves two fingers in roughly and it hurts but you don’t make any reaction outside of a small grunt. He scissors his fingers, stretching you open painfully so he can add a third. His teeth are nipping at your neck and you let your head loll to the side for better access.

You find yourself drifting away. You know the pain on your throat and in your cunt are yours but you can’t feel it like you think you should.

There’s some rustling, then something thick presses into you and you grunt again, falling forward onto the man’s shoulder as he shoves his cock into you.

You don’t think you’ve had something that big in you before, but you can’t remember, and you can’t tell how big it really is, because this still isn’t happening to you. It’s happening to some dull reflection of you and you can almost see yourself, glassy eyed and limp as the man fucks into you, your lower back and hips shoving hard into the wall with each thrust.

He grabs your leg and lifts it, kicking off your pants completely from your legs and onto the dirty ground beneath you and you think you feel blood dripping down your lower back from where the brick digs into your skin.

Your cunt burns from the stretch around his cock as he bottoms out in you over and over, faster and faster, until finally his moves become jerky and he shoves in hard and you feel warmth bloom in your cunt and drip down your thighs as he pulls out.

He lets you go and you collapse to the ground.

“What a useless slut,” he says as he fastens up his pants and it stirs something dark and terrible in you and you love it.

He leaves, not bothering to go back into the bar.

You sit there, struggling to pull yourself back into your body.

Time passes.

Eventually, you manage to wiggle back in your pants, not caring about the stranger’s cum that leaks out of your cunt and stains your underwear.

You hobble back home and collapse in bed, too tired and too drunk to clean yourself off.

Your brother doesn’t come home that night.

That’s fine.

He doesn’t need to see you like this or he might feel duty-bound to try to stop you from going out again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go back for seconds. And thirds. And fourths. And...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much actual smut this chapter, more just concepts.  
> Next chapter is the final one and should be some good legit smut.

You didn’t go out for a few days after your first experience. You saw your brother once in the meantime. He gave you a quick pat on the head as he grabbed something from his room and dashed back out the door. He was going to be out for another week, at least.

Tonight, you think your back has finally healed up enough not to break back open from scraping against the brick alley wall, and the pulsing soreness between your legs has quieted a bit. You even have a place picked out, a little bit farther away. You’ll probably need a cab back, but the bar looks seedier than the one you went to before, so you hope you’ll luck out again.

If not, a night of getting so drunk you can barely walk sounds just fine, too.

You grab a stool when you enter and order your shots of vodka again. They worked well enough last time. It doesn’t take long for another drink to slide your way. You look up and a handsome man a few stools down gives you a little wave. You wave back and sip at the drink, some sort of cocktail. A cosmopolitan, maybe? You don’t know, and you don’t particularly care. The taste isn’t the point. Which is good, because this one is… oddly salty. That rings a bell, and it’s a struggle to remember exactly what it makes you think of. Some sort of warning. Your brain feels sluggish, as do your movements. This is only your second drink. Then it clicks: roofies. You’ve been roofied. You could leave now, you still have enough control to do so, but you down the drink in a few large gulps.

The next few hours are hazy.

You remember standing, another friendly arm on your shoulders, a car, the jingle of keys.

You remember a wall, a door, someone carrying you, the chill of exposure.

Pain.

Not like last time, not in your cunt, but in your ass.

Low laughter.

Pain.

Pain.

Nothing.

You wake up on a park bench, thankfully with your phone and wallet still on you. Your whole body aches as you stretch and pull out your phone to call a ride. You try not to think about the ache in your ass, in your belly, in your throat.

When you get home to change and shower your underwear is filled with equal parts cum and blood.

You’re not sure if you’re dissatisfied that you can’t remember being used, or think it’s a fitting punishment, a proper loss of control.

You take longer to heal, but you have a slew of bars and clubs saved to your phone’s map that you start hitting up as soon as you recover.

At one, a man catches you in the bathroom, forces his dick down your throat and makes you swallow his piss then fucks your throat and splatters his cum on your face for good measure.

At another, a woman takes you back to her place, practically having to carry you into her apartment, and rides your face while she whips your clit with a ruler. She likes it when you struggle so you do, and you don’t have to fake your inability to get away, your coordination and strength completely gone.

At a club, you’re taken to a private room where you’re split open by a cock in your ass and cunt by some rich college kids who can pay off the owner to turn a blind eye. Not that they needed to. The owner face fucks you once they leave, not wanting to stick his dick in their “sloppy seconds.”

Every night you come home, covered in cum and sweat and sometimes tears and blood, depending on how rough they were, how much they wanted you to struggle.

The only times you’ve gone home without getting fucked is when they wanted you to pretend you liked it. Wanted you to beg for it, thank them, kiss them, whatever. Either you started struggling and they took what they wanted by force, or you broke away and you both went home disappointed.

It didn’t happen often, though. Most people knew exactly what you deserved.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A split perspective conclusion. Happily ever after.

Your name is Davis fucking Strider and you rule the indie movie scene. And the club scene. And whatever scene you feel like sliding into. Right now it’s the drinking scene at the aforementioned club scene and if you play your cards right it’s going to be the pound town scene and you ain’t never played your cards wrong.

In fact, one of your very considerate friends has alerted you to a very drunk blonde twink just waiting to see your hand. And feel it, if you catch your drift. You mentally high five yourself as you head over to the back bar. Apparently this guy has been bar hopping for the past few weeks, letting himself be used by just about anyone. Not usually your style, but you’ve been assured he’s just your type.

The back bar is more secluded than the main bar, not a lot of patrons around it, some drug deal going off nearby, and most other patrons cleared off once word got around you had your sights on blondie.

No one messes with what Davis fucking Strider has claimed, you made sure of it.

Poor blondie doesn’t seem to realize you’ve staked your claim, though. He’s hunched over the table, surrounded by about five shot glasses, another in his hands. You slide up on next to him, leaning against the bar, and give a low whistle. “Have a rough night?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond, just downs his drink, and you turn and look at him, see what he’s got in the face department, and your blood runs cold.

It’s Dirk.

It’s your baby brother.

You place your hands on his shoulders and turn him to look at you, but he’s so wasted he can’t focus on your face. He slumps forward into your arms and you hold him. “Let’s get you home,” you say. He doesn’t move.

You get an arm under his legs and another behind his back and pick him up bridal style, clutching him close to your chest and staring down anyone who looks at you funny while you walk him out of the club. Once you’re outside, you set him down just long enough to call up a cab, then gently place him inside, laughing with the driver about your brother who had one too many to call off any suspicion. Not that you were lying.

When you get him up to your shared apartment (thank God for elevators), he starts to rouse a little. You hear him mutter, “Wha--” as he takes in his surroundings, then he starts to struggle in your arms.

You shush him, holding him tight until you get to your room and deposit him on the bed. “I got you, baby bro. I got you.”

He looks up at you, and he’s lucid enough to recognize you. “Davis, what are you--”

You silence him with a kiss, soft and sweet. He freezes, then pushes you away. You let him, just for a moment.   
“Why?” he asks, still too drunk to form proper sentences.

You cup his cheek with one hand. “If you needed attention, all you had to do was ask. I can take care of you,” you reassure him. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

He shoves against you again, but you ignore it and press your lips to his once more, your tongue prodding into his mouth. He tries to keep his jaw closed to stop you, but your other hand has been wandering down his body and has now slipped under his pants, and his mouth opens to protest your fingers rubbing his dick through his boxers and your tongue slips in.

He goes limp against you and you sit back on your heels and look down at him. How had you not realized how beautiful he was? How much perfect sense you two being together made?

You take advantage of his unresistant state and pull off his clothes, tossing them to the side. Won’t be needing those anytime soon. You’re more careful with your own, hanging them neatly on the back of a chair for you to deal with later.

Dirk is starting to react again, sluggishly trying to roll his way off the bed, but you put a stop to that, rolling him back and straddling his hips. “It’s okay, Dirk, big bro’s got you.”

You are naked and pinned under your brother and retreating from his touch. Or at least you think you are. You mean to be. But your head is still fuzzy and your limbs feel distant and everything is numb except for the feeling of his cock, resting heavy on your stomach. He’s leaning over you again, whispering sweet things. How he’s got you. How he loves you. How he’s going to take care of you. You feel sick.

You try to cry out, tell him to stop, but it comes out strangled as he moves between your legs, hiking your legs up around his waist.

He’s feeling you, fingers probing in your cunt and he’s saying something and you can’t tell what. He reaches and grabs something from his bedside drawer and suddenly there’s a cold sensation against your pussy lips. You look down as he closes the bottle of lube and tosses it on the bed then grabs his cock and starts rubbing it against your slit, then up over your dick. You shiver at the sensation, try to move away but one arm is still holding your leg against him and your struggling just rubs you further against the head of his cock.

He smiles at you and you look away. He murmurs something else, but you cover your ears so you can’t hear it. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t  _ deserve _ to hear it.

He presses into you and you hate how smooth and  _ good _ it feels. The hand not on your leg goes to your dick and he begins rubbing small circles on it, gently at first but applying more pressure. You squirm again, but you can’t break free, can’t get away from the pleasure shooting through you.

He starts rocking his hips in and out and it’s like his cock was made for your cunt. It fills you up just right, and breath is knocked from your lungs every time he bottoms out. He uses your leg to tilt you up and starts going faster and oh  _ fuck _ he’s hitting a sweet spot and something inside of you wants to call out for more, but you let out a sob instead.

It’s too much, the assault in your cunt and on your dick. You feel yourself building to an orgasm you haven’t let yourself have in… Weeks? Months, maybe?

You move one hand from your head to find his wrist and try to push his hand away from your dick but he just chuckles and asks, “Getting close?”

You shake your head as though by denying it you could stop it from happening, but he just smiles again, gasping lightly for breath, and twists his hand so the heel of it rubs against you.

And against your will, your legs tighten around his waist and you cum with a long, hoarse moan.

He removes his hand and plants it on the bed next to you, now fucking you in earnest through your aftershocks. To your horror, you can feel another orgasm building. You try to focus on something, anything else to distract you from what’s happening, but you can’t shut your mind off like you have before and the slap of his hips against your ass echoes in your head.

He fucks into you hard and deep but never roughly and he bends down to capture a nipple in his mouth, barely able to hold it there with the force of his thrusts. It’s that feeling that sends you into your next orgasm, smaller this time, but intense.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your chest.

He slams in hard a few more times and you feel him fill you up with his cum, it and your own leaking out and down your ass.

He lifts his head up and kisses you on the lips as you lay there limply beneath him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

You don’t move as he climbs off you and leaves the room.

You hear him come back, but stay still as he wipes you down with a warm washcloth then tosses it down where he tossed your clothes.

He rummages in his drawer again and you feel cool leather against your throat and then hear a click and you jerk up as you realize what’s happening.

He chuckles again and presses you back into the bed. “This is so you won’t go put yourself in danger anymore, okay? It’s for your own good.” 

You watch him loop a chain through some holes in his headboard, the other side going to the collar around your throat. He locks it with a padlock and your stomach sinks.

“You won’t need to be going anywhere now that I’m taking care of you,” he says cupping your face in his hands and kissing your nose. “Big bro’s got you. Forever and ever.”


End file.
